


Calculated Result

by hellhoundsprey



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Accountant Dean Winchester, Alternate Universe - Lawyers, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Normal Life, Alternate Universe - Office, Anal Fisting, COVID 19, Domestic Fluff, Double Anal Penetration, Glasses, Kink Negotiation, Lawyer Castiel (Supernatural), Lawyer Sam Winchester, Light BDSM, Married Couple, Multi, Sex Worker Dean Winchester, Threesome - M/M/M, team everybody switches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:40:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27796309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/pseuds/hellhoundsprey
Summary: It’s been two weeks since their last…appointment. Which it is—an appointment. Arrangement. Something-something. He was busy and then they were busy, and. It just turns out like that, sometimes.The entire weekend though, now.Dean is still in denial.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Castiel/Sam Winchester
Comments: 12
Kudos: 75





	Calculated Result

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ClaraxBarton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaraxBarton/gifts).



> A sequel to [It’s All In The Numbers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27099880).

“Can you get this done today?”

Dean stops typing for a moment to accept the papers. He skims the first page before he utters, “Yeah, sure,” and puts them aside for now. Push of glasses, blind reach for his coffee. “Almost done with this one. I’ll send it over in about an hour.”

Cas tells him, “Excellent,” but doesn’t leave.

Dean shoots him a look.

Cas is typing on his phone.

“…Can I help you?”

“No, no, it’s fine, just one second. There,” and Dean’s phone chimes from within the depths of the drawer he’s stuffed it into (together with a half-finished bag of pork rinds).

Dean’s eyebrows lift towards his hairline.

His boss smiles all proud.

“You can literally just tell me.”

Cas reminds, “Sam said to keep it out of the workplace.”

“He also said ‘absolutely no private phone use except for emergencies’.”

Dean’s boss’s face scrunches with his troubled little (huge) frown. His entire body commiserates to create this one impressive picture of inner conflict. And for a moment, it almost looks like Cas is just gonna go ahead and cross that line and tell Dean to ignore either of the rules.

But he deflates. Half-roll of eye and he sighs, only slightly annoyed.

“Read it later, then,” and a lackluster wave of his hand, and Dean tells him, “Yeah,” but Wesson’s already out the door by then. Dean chuckles.

He takes his phone with him on the next bathroom break. Their little group chat with the sporadic back and forth of last night and one new message from Cas. It reads:

_can’t wait!_

and a plethora of heart emojis, and Dean scoffs in the intimacy of the single bathroom stall where he’s definitely not getting red in the face.

These guys are…something else.

Dean finishes up the report and clears his desk for the weekend. He loads the dishwasher in the tea kitchen with whatever cups he finds in the sink, throws a tab in there and turns the thing on. He wipes down the counter and changes the dishtowel, throws the used one in the according bin. He grabs his jacket, his bag.

The door to the Wessons’ office is not closed all the way, so Dean carefully pushes it open just a little more to peek his head inside.

Half-signed, half-whispered, “I’m heading out,” and Cas nods enthusiastically, mouths how he’ll call Dean but holds the sign of the horns to his jaw instead of what most people would use for a ‘phone’ gesture, but Sam’s talking so loudly and aggressively on the shared line and pacing the room that, yeah, Dean probably couldn’t spell his own name if he had to sit through that shit. He fully closes the door behind himself, followed by an immediate bellow of, “DID I ASK YOU TO CLOSE THAT FUCKING DOOR?” and Dean pushes it right back how he found it as he urges, “Sorry,” and scrambles to fucking get out of here asap.

Out in the streets, it’s wet and cold. Dean grumbles into his mask and pops his collar high; shivers nevertheless. He leaves the huge century-old brick building neighborhood behind in favor of the subway.

~

“Hey.”

“Welcome.” A flick of concern on Cas’ face. “There is snow in your hair.”

Dean informs, “Yeah,” as he shrugs out of his coat, has Cas taking it from him to hang it for him. “It’s snowing.”

“I’d really rather you take a cab.”

“Walking is healthy.”

“Not in this weather it is not. And what about the curfew? The fines are—”

Dean begins, “If you want me to get _fat_ ,” but doesn’t finish up. Gets a smile out of Cas, finally, even if it’s that maternal hue that tells him he’s being a brat and an idiot and irresponsible. Dean smiles back.

Cas’ hand finds the small of Dean’s back. He says, “I’m glad you’re here,” and Dean replies, “Yeah,” and gets a kiss on the mouth.

A holler from down the corridor: “You’re LATE.”

Dean announces, “Sorry,” but shares a secret smile with Cas.

They join Sam in the living room. Sam, who folds his book in half and plucks his reading glasses off his pristine face with a tight sigh, his long legs crossed and barefoot and he inquires, “Did you shower?”

“Why, you wanna check?”

Sam warns, “Watch it,” while Dean dumps his bag over in the bedroom. Returns to the husbands on the monstrous couch, odd-looking in leisure wear instead of the constant suits. Sam looks showered and primed like some A+ Patrick Bateman double, probably worked out in the time Dean used to throw himself on his couch and almost-miss his alarm at around eight to start getting ready.

Dean leans in to kiss Sam on the mouth but gets a pressing, “Did you?” after, nonetheless, and Dean vows, “Yeah, yeah,” while Cas already pulls him in to sit between them, cuddles up against his back.

“Did you eat dinner yet?”

Again, “Yeah,” and Sam still looks pissed but that’s just his face. Dean has the illusion that it softens, just a little, for him. A thumb to Dean’s cheek, the tip of his ear.

Sam tells him in the gentlest tone Dean’s heard of him all week: “Don’t get the leather wet.”

“What do you want to do today, Dean?”

“Uh, wow, talk about getting to the point… That, uh. I should be asking you that,” and a chuckle. Cas’ hand finds Dean’s thigh and rubs over the roughness of his jeans. “I dunno. I’m open for whatever.” He shrugs.

Cas confesses, “I was hoping you would say that,” and to Dean’s right, Sam scoffs.

It’s been two weeks since their last…appointment. Which it is—an appointment. Arrangement. Something-something. He was busy and then they were busy, and. It just turns out like that, sometimes.

The entire weekend though, now.

Dean is still in denial.

Simple but imperative, “Take off your clothes,” and Dean starts in on that without further comment. Gets a, “No, not these,” when he attempts to pull his glasses off in sheer habit, and he tells Sam, “Sorry.” Sam just gently shakes his head and rakes his too-long fingers through the cheap product in the hair Dean’s spent ridiculous amounts of time on. He’d get mad if it wasn’t—Sam.

He’s still working on both button and zipper of his jeans when Cas already puts his hands on him—pinches the stiff point of Dean’s nipple strict enough to make Dean falter in his efforts, and he dips his head low with a pleased hum to put his mouth on the other, yet unharmed one. Has Dean muttering, “Fuck,” while worming out of his last two pieces of clothing, while Sam shifts to truly face him (them).

Drag of knuckles up Dean’s breastbone, into the hollow of his throat.

“You’re nervous,” notes Sam, and Dean half-nods. Tells him,

“Yeah,”

and closes his eyes. Feels Sam’s hand lifting to his throat, skimming along his jaw. Dip and press of thumb, pry of nail, until Dean understands and opens his mouth. Sam hooks behind his teeth and pulls, and Dean doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

Sam soothes, “There’s no need for that,” and, “remember?” and Dean makes an agreeing noise, and his chest is starting to ache with how insistent Cas is working it. He gets a hand on top of Cas’ head, the back of his neck to stroke, pet; and Sam abandons Dean’s mouth to swipe his spit over his bottom lip, makes Dean close his mouth back up.

Another soft curse when Cas switches sides. Sam gets a hold of the half-chub of Dean’s dick, hums, “Shh-shh-shh,” and Dean reminds himself to relax, lets his legs fall open. Lets them take what they want.

Cas pauses his onslaught to inform him, “I want you on all fours,” and Dean groans with approval. Gets his head turned until Sam can kiss his mouth while he fondles Dean’s dick, and, God. “And after that, you will fuck me while Sam eats you out.”

An echoed, “ _God_ ,” and Cas’ happy chuckle puffs warm against Dean’s wet skin.

“I will take that as a yes.”

It’s—a lot. Them.

Sam said they used to swing but with their active practice and all that, they don’t want people to talk. Reputation, conservative field, blah. They had hired a couple of people but didn’t find it to be as exciting. Dean doesn’t know why they asked him, considering all that.

Doesn’t know what exactly they expect of him, most of the time, which seems to usually—hit the spot.

It’s good—them. The three of them, together.

That stupid-expensive leather couch that’s not even that comfortable. Sam’s mouth on Dean’s dick with his nose in Dean’s pubes while Cas counter-rhythmically laps his stupid-hot tongue into Dean’s ass, and Dean just holds on for dear life. Sam’s hair, the thick, long strands of it between the webs of Dean’s fingers—Dean’s eyes roll sweet, and he’s babbling incoherent stuff. It won’t get much more sophisticated from here.

“Fuck, I’m gonna come… I, I need…”

Sam pulls off and ignores Dean’s half-hearted scowl. Squeezes him more than he strokes and supplies, “Bedroom,” and Cas is the last on his feet but the first on his knees.

Dean snarls once and surprised for the smack to his ass but allows himself to be yanked further down the bed until Cas can bury his face anew. Leaves half an eye on Sam who rounds the bed to take off his watch, his ring. Who flicks on the cheesy lights and some sort of music whose genre Dean has yet to identify. Electric but non-invasive, just—like a foreign heartbeat. Guiding them along.

Sam is—beautiful.

In a surreal, artificial way.

When he takes off his shirt and the shadows drape around the manicured lines of his body. The soft movements of his hair. The darkness of his eyes as he watches.

Dean snaps out of it for the sudden clap to his ass, for Cas stopping with his mouth (and picking up with his fingers). “Come here,” he hears, and Dean blinks for the tender little smile pulling over Sam’s mouth, that almost-demure vibe.

How Sam moves like a cat. How they kiss, behind Dean, and Dean can’t exactly see because he’d have to break his neck but, oh, he tries. They look at him with sheer adoration. Nearly—shy.

“You wanna take a picture?”

“What? You guys are hot.”

“I hate that you are still talking,” and, yeah, Sam stuffing one and then two of his own fingers next to Cas’ is a good fucking way to take Dean’s mind off—practically anything. He groans, melts back into the sheets. “That’s better.”

He hears them kissing. Turns his head to the other side, cheek to the yet unspoiled sheets and one hand roams over his ass and up his back, soothes him nice and warm. Dean’s mumbling earns him a too-loose fist around his cock. And while that won’t get him there, it’s—so good. Just so fucking good with their hands all over him, everywhere.

Sam uses the opportunity to wrangle yet another finger into Dean’s ass. To address his husband with, “Maybe you should fist him so we can fuck him together. Like last time,” and Dean swallows back a noise that they would never, ever let him hear the end of.

Sam rocks his hand down on purpose, and Dean’s gasping into the bed. He’d grab for one of their wrists if it even made a fucking difference.

“Maybe,” hums Cas, “maybe, Sam, you should lie back and stop being so bossy. We have all weekend. Relax.”

A chuckle. “Is that an order?”

“It is,” and a short kiss, and then the bed moves with Sam’s weight.

His fingers disappear and the next time Dean blinks, Sam is sprawled out in front of him, wearing nothing but the smirk on his face.

He tugs on the heavy, half-hard line of his cock and tells Dean, “Hey,” and pats the very top of his thigh. Dean doesn’t have to be told twice.

Doesn’t need full sentences, either.

He peppers kisses on the warm flush of Sam’s balls, the underside of his cock—Cas knees up behind him in the meanwhile and Dean hears him slicking himself up. And, yeah: “Fuck…!” and Sam guides him back down to his balls with his hand on the back of his head while Cas rocks into his ass in one smooth thrust.

“You feel so good,” and both hands on Dean’s ass, and Dean’s face heats for too many reasons at once. His glasses are already smudged to hell and back.

Cas is always hasty, always used to everything just molding to what he wants. Bumps himself deep into Dean’s guts and it’d hurt if Dean hadn’t been so meticulous in his preparations (even he can learn), despite the lube; and Sam casually stuffs his cock into Dean’s mouth, and that’s that.

~

A not-so-gentle nudge to his shoulder wakes Dean up. “Whu?” but Cas gestures for him to be quiet. It’s still dark.

They’re really getting their money’s worth, huh.

Cas mouths for him to _watch_ , and there’s some stirring between them, and Sam shifts in Dean’s arms and against his chest. The snick of lube is Dean’s only cue before Sam grunts, off-guard, still sleeping.

Dean’s eyes grow big in the dark.

Again shushing from Cas, and Dean doesn’t know if it’s even directed at him this time, not with how fast and furious Sam is beginning to wake up and stir and groan for—yeah, there it is, the first full slap of Cas’ lap meeting Sam’s ass. Dean gawps in disbelief as he helps holding Sam down, keeps him wedged between Cas and himself while Sam’s stubble catches mean on Dean’s chest with that gritted, “Fuck—!”

Cas and he lock eyes across a pillow, over Sam’s shoulder.

Cas smiles.

Up on one elbow and Cas flirts a kiss to Sam’s ear, his temple. “Cuffs?”

Sam nods into Dean’s chest.

Oh, Jesus Christ.

Dean takes care of that. Distant mumble between the couple, and when Sam’s arms are stretched out nice above his head and his hands hang limp in the cuffs, he looks up at Dean with something like—reverence.

Dean swallows.

Cas orders, “Blow him,” and Sam’s eyes narrow but shift, and he raises his head, just a little, and Dean’s not even fucking hard yet.

Dean wraps his hand around his dick, still up on his knees. “Fuck…”

“No, let him do that.”

Tighter, “Fuck,” and Dean kneels in closer, drops and arranges his hips until Sam can get his mouth on him, and God, the suction is immediate. Desperate.

Cas puts a hand to Sam’s forehead to tip him back, wipe the hair out of his face. Wants to know, “Good, yeah?” but Dean can’t hear any reply. Just breath, muffled. Fuck, they’ll be the fucking death of him.

Time is meaningless, here. Fluid and warm and Dean gets a pat on his ass eventually, catches himself mid-thrust, oblivious.

Cas huffs, “Switch?”

Dean gives him a horrified look.

“He wants it. Trust me.”

Between Dean dislodging his dick from the depths of Sam’s throat and Cas straddling his face in reverse, there’s not much time to get a sight of Sam’s expression. They roll him onto his back, and, oh. Yeah, okay, he’s into this. Very. By a _mile_.

Dean marvels at—all of it. The mess of lube smeared everywhere, the hint of Sam’s barely broken-in asshole. He strokes himself before he gathers his courage, thumbs at the perfectly bare rim of Sam’s hole—Sam’s thighs part easy, willingly, and Cas hums with appreciation.

“Good boy,” and it’s not for him but Dean beams with it nevertheless.

The push-in is tight, amazing. Sleep and no prep, maybe, and Cas licks into his mouth as he groans. So easy to sink balls-deep, get milked at. Jesus. Jesus, he didn’t expect—this.

“His idea. But don’t tell him I said that.”

Dean chuckles. Rolls his hips. Lets Cas continue to kiss him stupid, suck on his tongue. Sam’s like a vice around him, hot and soft inside. Despite them teasing two orgasms out of him before they fell into a collective coma, this isn’t gonna take long.

“Close?”

Mindless, “Uh-huh.”

Cas warns, “Don’t,” and pinches Dean’s nipple like he’d wanted to fucking rip it off. “Stop if you have to.” Dean groans. “No, I don’t care. You don’t come unless we tell you to.”

Dean grumbles, “Cruelty,” and allows himself two more thrusts before he has to still, wait it out. Cas is still playing with his chest and Dean has to tell him, “Fuck, don’t,” and he gets a backhand for that, and his balls throb dangerously tight. Hissed, “Fuck, Cas,” and Cas pinches his face, shakes him with it.

Once Cas has climbed off Sam’s face, Dean gets to see how wrecked they got the guy—eyes blown wide, spit everywhere, flushed and sweaty and his mouth puffy and red, and—fuck.

“Wait, waitwaitwait, _Cas_ ,” but Dean’s already getting shoved forward, and Cas already thumbs his cock inside him, and Dean can’t do much more than gasp and hold his breath and shake like a fucking dog.

A hand in his hair and, “Kiss him,” low and threatening and Dean shivers; shivers harder for the taste of Cas’ ass on Sam’s mouth. Doesn’t hurt, no, not with how the evening had progressed, but God, caught between them with his own cock still buried in Sam, it’s… “Kiss him like you _mean_ it.”

Dean does that. Jostles between the two of them, stuck and with his knees digging deep into the mattress, and Sam huffs sweet below him, against his tongue, his teeth.

Dean’s got his eyes screwed shut.

Cas rakes his hand back into Dean’s hair and fists into the longer strands of it to hold on. Leans forward to speak into Dean’s ear: “Don’t,” and Dean whimpers.

~

Sam tells him, “Stop that,” but, unlike last time, doesn’t slap Dean’s hand away from where it’s playing with a rogue strand of his hair.

“Black, right?” mumbles Cas, frowning and waddling over to them.

Dean gasps, “Yeah, thanks,” and gladly accepts one of the three cups whose handles Cas has woven his fingers into to carry them from counter to table. If anything, the coffee machine is the one luxury he truly fucking _gets_.

Aside from the cars, maybe.

Collective appreciative silence for the first few sips. It’s Cas who groans first, who mumbles, “I am so freaking tired, you guys,” and both Sam and Dean give him a long look for it. He adds, “I am aware that it is my fault.”

Despite everything, it’s still weird to see them sweet and intimate. Like, at all. To see Sam wrapping one long arm around his husband and cupping him close, pressing a kiss into his hair. Dean has had both of these men sitting on his face within the last twenty-four hours, but this shit right here still gets him blushing and looking away and down into his coffee like a fucking schoolgirl.

“We can take it slow,” reminds Sam. Tucks one too-wild lock of hair behind Cas’ ear, rubs his shoulder. Cas scowls. “You could take a nap.”

A very, very tired glare. “Stop making me look like an old man in front of our boy toy.”

Sam smiles. A rarity. Warm and loving and he says, “I’m sorry,” and you can tell he means it. Something little like this. The same man who’s threatened to fire Dean over one single typo.

They _do_ take it slow after breakfast. Cuddled up on the bed between Dean and Sam, Cas is indeed out after barely five minutes. Dean is half aware of Sam getting up, leaving the bedroom, but he is too comfortable and drowsy himself. And here he thought he’d never get away with sleeping on the job.

Nudges first and then shoves to his shoulder wake him up, eventually. Dean attempts to complain but Sam is quicker—slaps his hand down over Dean’s mouth and gestures him to shut up, follow him.

Ah. Nothing like getting vertical after a midday nap to remind you how you are, in fact, no longer in your twenties.

Sam walks upfront. Workout clothes, sweat. Dean frowns. “Were you working out? On the _weekend_?!”

“Shut up.”

Upstairs; the door Dean knows their little (not so little) home office is behind just ajar, but Sam walks further down the corridor, and Dean. Remembers.

Sam closes the door behind them, keeps Dean boxed in between himself and the door. Simply…huge. Intimidating, even if he doesn’t watch you as closely and calculating as he does with Dean, right now.

Dean clears his throat. “So, uhm…”

“I said to shut up.”

“Oookay.”

Dean turns his head; isn’t stopped. Sam’s attention keeps weighing on him. Every ounce of natural curiosity in Dean makes it much easier to keep staring at the bench-like construction in the corner of the room.

Eventually, casual: “I’m trying to figure out what I wanna do with you.”

Dean just says, “Hm.” He has the weird urge to clasp his hands behind his back. His eyes swim back to Sam, the indifferent set of his mouth.

“I’m thinking impact stuff, but I can’t decide.”

Louder, nodding, “ _Hm_ ,” and Dean’s nostrils flare with his breath. Okay. That again, huh.

“Any ideas? Wishes? No?” Sam follows his line of sight. Doesn’t even blink as Dean licks his lip, blinks his eyes. Begins with,

“Man,”

and he’s on the ground faster than his vertigo can catch up with it.

He can’t help but—tense. Fight, even if all ‘fight’ he is capable of is a yank of his own limbs, a buck (singular) of his body.

Dean love-hates that the floor is fucking _padded_.

“Sure know what I’ll do with your mouth,” says Sam. Two hundred pounds and he knows how to use every single one. “Don’t move.”

Dean doesn’t have to be told twice.

Wrist circled with his other hand, stomach-down, he waits—for Sam to climb off him, grab some shit from a nearby drawer, return to him. His breathing is already wrecked, already stumbles, and Sam is only just yanking his pajama pants off his ass for him.

A warning, “Shut up,” and two dry fingers pry into him, and Dean bites back a curse. Grunts instead. Squirms only a little.

Sam’s hand pulses once, twice, before he pulls his fingers back out. Smacks Dean on the ass hard enough to startle a man.

“On your knees.”

Dean does that. Huffs. Sam wrangles his arms higher, fingertips to inner elbows; fixes them like that. Rope. Something.

Dean’s pants are still caught around his thighs.

Cas joins them—at some point. At a point where Dean isn’t even aware of it, not really, except that his face gets touched for the first time again since Sam tied the bandana over his eyes, fastened the ball gag behind his head.

A laugh, excited; airy.

“Oh, you guys.”

Dean flinches all over for the feathery drag of fingertips over the raw skin on his ass, the back of his thighs.

He starts begging again on the open-handed slap to his ass. Bucks against his bonds and he’s gonna cry again and Cas just laughs and does it again.

“Give me the one over there—yes. Thank you, sweetheart.”

Dean is sobbing once Cas drops the tool to the ground; finally. Leans in with a sigh and buries his face against Dean’s ass but all Dean can come up with is a weak struggle against the rasp of Cas’ stubble. The wet heat of his mouth is—insane. Lapping at him like a dog, wide and dripping, and Dean shakes.

They take turns. Untie him at some point, get him back downstairs at some point. Dean is just—drifting.

His throat hurts with his pained whine—his arms fasten around someone’s shoulders—Cas’? No; Cas’ hand in him. Cas’ voice cooing encouragements and endearments while he punches him out, and Sam wipes at the rivulet of drool on Dean’s chin.

“Almost there,” he hears, but when they both push inside of him, it’s still—so much. Too much.

Wild breath, soothing rubs.

He says, “I can’t,” and doesn’t notice they took the gag off. Gets a hand between them and feels around where they stretch him out, whimpers, “Oh, _God_ ,” and lets his head fall back, against Sam’s chest. Sam’s neck. Sam’s shushing mouth.

Cas’ hands roaming his chest, his stomach, his arms; right there. “Shhh, we got you. We got you, Dean.”

He’s out for a long time. Long enough that once he comes to, even Sam looks slightly distraught.

First thing Dean says is, “Assholes,” and that makes it better, that makes Cas’ smile again.

In the bathroom, Cas offers, “It can be me, next time. If you would like that.” Dean just stares up at him from where he’s cowered on the toilet. That angelic, holy smile on that face.

~

He accuses, “You broke me,” but neither of them seems to be sorry. Seems to take him seriously, at all.

Cas, happily eating his ass. Sam, just…being Sam. Being a jerk, looking on, up on one elbow and petting Dean’s stomach. Tugs on Dean’s dick every once in a while.

Dean gets his wrist snatched, gets his hand guided between Sam’s legs. Dean pouts.

“Don’t pout.”

Dean’s, “Fuck you, man,” gets drowned out by Sam’s mouth. By the wet pop of Cas, nursing on his balls.

Sam’s hand cups Dean’s throat like a lover. “I’ll open him up for you, all right?”

Dean manages, “You’ll do what now?” and his throat is still fucking raw, but his mouth fucking salivates nice for Sam, retrieving Dean’s hand, kissing his knuckles sweet, eyes all awake and fixed on Dean.

Oh, Lord.

“You ever had your hand inside someone, Dean?” and Dean hears Cas groaning for that, nuzzle his cock for that, and he thinks he says no, and Sam presses another, last kiss to his hand before he pushes himself up, moves up behind his husband.

“It’s weird, at first,” he says, rucking Cas up by the hips so he can thumb his cock inside him. “You’ll like it.”

Cas gets pushed forward so far that Dean has to catch him. Helps pushing him back onto Sam, helps keeping him pinned and, Lord, he’s still so fucking sore all over (inside out) but his dick really _really_ likes the idea, the concept—Cas, moaning above him, being pounded. Blooming open on the inside, so Dean can—fuck. Jesus, Lord.

“Gonna kill me, Cas,” and it feels true. Feels like Dean’s being torn, throbbing and sore and swollen but he has to get a hand on his dick, has to stroke himself nice and firm because Cas is so pliant, so eager.

Nods frantic to nothing, everything. Lets Dean lap into his mouth, suck on his lip. Shudders with every brutal thrust Sam dishes out, nasty on purpose. Dean wants that. All of that.

Murmurs, “Fuck,” when Sam yanks his cock out, drops down to slurp at Cas’ ass immediately. Makes Cas shudder and wince and Dean pets him sweet, spreads him wide, makes it easier. Lets himself get kissed, kisses Cas; both, all of it.

They prop Cas on a bunch of pillows by the edge of the bed. Dean’s knees already are a lost cause—and it’s not like he could mind, right now. Cas’ ass right there in front of his face, Sam showing him how it’s done, egging him on.

Telling him, “It’s okay. See?” and pushing two of his own fingers in next to Dean’s already-in-there four. God, it’s a tight fit. Dripping with lube, and yet… “He loves it. Don’t you, babe?”

A muffled, “God, please,” from not-so-far, and Dean angles his thumb in, and he pushes.

He slips in to the wrist with Sam’s generous help.

Gasps, “Oh, _fuck_ ,” and can’t take his eyes off it—how Cas’ body just swallows him up, nurses on him and shudders through it. One of them says to move his arm, and Dean does, and. Oh, man, he’s so hard he can’t even feel it anymore.

They fuck him again, after. Sam and him. Crushed and velvet and still tight, somehow, still so wonderful, and Dean can’t stop kissing them, praising them. Cas, Sam; whosever mouth he can reach, whoever wants to hear it. Mindless, hungry rut and nearly prone on top of them, plastered to Cas’ back and slurring kisses behind ears, down throats. No matter how sore he is, this feels more important.

It’s tender, after. Feels more tender after they did it to him, somehow, and Dean feels weirdly vulnerable for someone who just had half his arm inside one of his bosses.

Cas kisses his hair, pets him relentlessly. Tells him, “You did so good, Dean,” and Dean just keeps his face tucked away, keeps his arms firm around Cas. He drinks from the water bottle Sam supplies him with, eventually. Gets his back rubbed, his shoulder nudged.

“Good job,” and Sam will deny he said that.

~

It’s a cold-wet evening. Dean’s glasses fog violently.

On their doorstep, fully clothed and winter-layers-heavy, he realizes just how…fucking done his body is with being alive. How deep the bruises on his ass apparently reach.

He turns back, hesitantly; bag on his shoulder and all.

Cas is still peering nervously at him from where he’s tucked underneath Sam’s arm. Who now looks up at a sour, aware Sam.

A sigh, a dramatic roll of eyes. Sam.

“Fine. Drive him.”

Cas’ smile is as immediate as his duck and grab for his coat, his boots.

Sam pulls his husband aside like a secret. Like Dean’s not still right there. Eyes to Dean behind his clear reading glasses as he murmurs, “Not the BMW,” and Dean scoffs, and he thinks Sam’s mouth almost-smiles as well.

Cas scoffs, “Of course not,” and they share a kiss before Cas joins Dean outside, in the cold.


End file.
